A Cup of Tea is Good for the Soul
by Sameuspegasus
Summary: Pre-Series. The Flatmates discover Annie can make tea.


George growled to himself as he stepped in the front door. He just wanted to have a hot shower and go to bed. Mrs Van der Helder had vomited all over him as he tried to help her get to the bathroom. He'd had a wash at the hospital, but he still felt like he was covered in sick. He'd also had to transport not one but three bodies to the morgue, clear up after someone who'd had an accident in the corridor, and been yelled at by a nurse for something that wasn't his fault. He'd got caught in the rain on the way home. He was freezing, and to top it off, it was nearly his time of the month. A couple more days, and that… thing… would take him over again. So forgive him if he wasn't feeling too friendly. Forgive him, if he didn't want to sit around with his flatmates. Was a hot shower and a quiet night too much to ask?

Yes, apparently. Mitchell and Annie were sitting at the table smiling expectantly at him. The table was covered in mugs. There wasn't a spare spot visible. Some were full. Some were empty, dregs of tea drying inside them, staining them brown. Every mug they owned must have been sitting there.

"I'm not washing those," George told them grumpily.

Annie smiled at him with irritating perkiness. Seriously, it wasn't fair. Why did they have to move into the house with the ghost? She was nice enough, he supposed, once you got used to the whole ghost thing. The unexpected walking through walls and incessant chatter. Mitchell obviously really liked her. But really, it was like having an uninvited guest who wouldn't leave, never paid any rent, and forced you to watch Pride and Prejudice repeatedly. Well, not so much forced as suggested, but still.

"Have a cup of tea, George," Annie suggested, a pleased smile on her face.

Mitchell was looking at her with that expression on fondness he sometimes got when he thought nobody was looking. "Yes, George, have a cup of tea."

"I don't want a cup of tea," George said irritably. It was no warmer in the house than it had been outside. His wet clothes were sticking to him. He needed a shower.

Annie's face fell slightly, but she kept smiling. "Are you sure?"

George felt a small pang of regret, like he had somehow hurt her feelings without realising it. It wasn't enough to stop him stomping towards the bathroom, though.

"I think you'll feel better after a cup of tea, George," Mitchell said, with somewhat threatening friendliness.

"I'm going to have a shower," George growled, continuing his path to the bathroom.

"I need a wee," Mitchell announced, getting up and whirling past George to beat him to the bathroom. He grabbed George's arm, dragging him along. "Come with me, George."

George allowed himself to be pulled into the little room, looking sideways at his oddly-acting flatmate in suspicion. "What's going on?"

Mitchell closed the door behind them before exclaiming in overdramatic desperation, "I have had nineteen cups of tea, George! I cannot drink any more tea!"

George stared at him. "Ok… why have you had nineteen cups of tea?"

"She looked so happy!"

"Still not following."

"Annie!"

"Annie… made you drink nineteen cups of tea?"

"Yes! I mean, not made me, exactly. Made them for me."

"Annie can make tea?"

"She just figured out how to do it today. She's really proud. Just go and have a cup of tea, George. Please! It's good tea."

"Fine," George said, "I'll let the ghost make me a cup of tea. But I'm not doing the washing up."

"Good, go do that," Mitchell instructed him, "And tell her it's lovely."

They stood in the bathroom for a moment, each waiting for the other to move. "I really do need to wee," said Mitchell finally, " _Nineteen cups of tea,_ George."

"Okay, I'm going," said George resignedly, "You better not have eaten all the biscuits."

Mitchell smirked. "I had nineteen cups of tea, George. Do you really think I could do that without biscuits?"

George sat at the table. "Annie," he said purposefully, "I would like a cup of tea."

Annie beamed at him delightedly. "I'll just make that for you, shall I?"

George nodded. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Annie flicked the switch on the kettle. It had obviously been boiled recently, because within a few seconds, it was roaring. She pulled the last remaining clean mug from the cupboard, took a teabag out of George's bulk pack of PG Tips (considerably depleted since yesterday, he noticed), and proceeded to make the tea.

"You take two sugars, don't you, George?" Annie asked, removing the lid from the sugar jar, "I've been watching how you make your tea."

George nodded mutely. It was incredible, really. A year ago, he'd just been a normal person. He'd had a girlfriend. He'd been educated in the languages and considering career options. He'd been on holidays to remote regions of Scotland. He'd liked walking in the woods. He'd had dinner with his fairly boring parents every Saturday. And now he was a hospital porter who lived with a vampire, had his mind and body replaced by a terrifying and dangerous monster once a month, and was sitting in his kitchen, watching a ghost make him tea.

Annie placed the tea proudly in front of him, watching with poorly disguised anxiety as he wrapped his freezing hands around the warm mug and took his first sip.

It was the best cup of tea he'd ever had. "Oh wow, Annie!" He took another sip. It was like nectar, or an ultimate cure-all. It warmed him through, somehow comforting, reminding him of drinking tea with his mother on cold days when he was home from university. "This is lovely. What a lovely cup of tea."

"What did I tell you?" Mitchell's voice had a laugh in it, as he made his way back to the table.

Annie giggled. "Well, it was nothing, really."

"It's not nothing, Annie," Mitchell told her warmly, "You can manipulate objects. You can make tea. It's incredible."

And it was. George finished his cup. "I'm going to have a shower," he said, "But when I get back, how about another cup of this amazing tea and an episode of Pride and Prejudice."

Annie beamed at him. The lights came on just a little bit brighter. Mitchell clapped him on the back, a silent thank-you.

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a row across the couch, George, then Mitchell, then Annie. George and Mitchell both had their hands clasped about full mugs of tea. On the screen, Colin Firth was riding a horse across Netherfield Park.

Sometimes, George thought, this life was really alright.


End file.
